Obsession
by clayfish32
Summary: Directly follows Episode 9x5 the LH eppy . Meant to be HUMOROUS! Question to readers: How much power do they really have?


_**Obsession**_

**A/N: Follows the airing of episode 9x5: Leave Out all the Rest. Meant to be HUMOROUS. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of it, nor do I mean any disrespect toward anyone or anything (real or imagined) alluded to. **

**A/N2: Anyone reading has my express permission to place themselves in the role of the girl at the end-this is why she remains unnamed.  
****A/N3: Many many thanks to Keegan Elizabeth for beta-ing. YOU ROCK!!**

* * *

"_Reports that the popular television program TPTB's ratings skyrocketed after last night's episode involving the controversial character Madame Pleather, who is questionably involved with the show's main character, Bill Butthead, are being thoroughly investigated due to claims from avid fans of the show's main character and his beloved, Farrah Fidel. In other news the market exploded as late last night and into this morning record sales of chocolate, ice cream, sleeping pills, ulcer medication, and wine went through the roof. No conclusive causes have been found yet that tie any of these anomalies together...Next up: What does the weather look like in..."_The announcer's voice faded as he clicked off the TV in the break room.

Greg looked up from the coffee pot and grumbled, "Hey, that's of interest to some of us..."

Nick bumped Riley and raised his eyebrows. "Dad's home."

She smiled knowingly.

Catherine sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. Either he hadn't heard the comment (or more likely was too distracted to hear), or Grissom didn't want to waste any time.

"Actually, Greg, that's of interest to _all_ of us tonight. But you don't need to be getting your facts from the evening news. Everyone's on board tonight. Catherine, you and I have a DB at a 24 hour pharmacy. Nick, Greg, and Riley-you have a multiple in Henderson. Suspicious circumstances all around--maybe an epidemic, we don't know yet."

Catherine raised an eyebrow but remained silent. _So he wants to work with me but won't talk to me? His ## is __**so**__ getting a beat down._

Grissom dropped his head and took a breath. "Look, I'm expecting that you can all handle this—let's figure out what's going on and see if we can prevent whatever it is from happening anywhere else."

* * *

"So, are you going to talk to me or not?"

His knuckles turned white briefly as he gripped the steering wheel and then relaxed.

"I can't."

"You _won't_."

"I don't know what to say. I don't know what you want to hear."

"Gil, we've known each other for what—a hundred years now? I'm your _friend_. I don't want anything but the best for you. And the _**TRUTH**_ from you. Don't shut everyone out."

"You mean don't shut _you_ out."

"No, I mean everyone. You barely give anyone a second glance anymore. We know you're not sleeping. _And_," she lowered her voice, "I know where you were last night."

He narrowed his eyes but kept his gaze on the road in front of him.

"Hey, I'm not judging you, I just want to help. Let me help, Gil."

"Later. Ok?" he said as they pulled up to their crime scene.

"I'm holding you to it," she warned as she got out of the car and made her way past the yellow tape.

* * *

"Whoa. Looks like quite a party."

Greg dropped his kit near the door, scrunched his forehead and surveyed the scene before him. What looked like dozens of empty pill bottles lay scattered on the floor and the tabletops. Several empty or nearly empty bottles of wine were discarded and abandoned on various surfaces ranging from the bookshelf to the mantle. It looked as if several wine bottles had been hurled at the face of the television-which looked like it was crying blood, the red wine still dripping from multiple cracks.

"Hey, do you see any glasses? I think the vics were drinking straight from the bottles," Nick observed.

"I wonder..."

"What?"

"Well," Greg started, "Grissom said that that news bulletin would be of interest to all of us. I was just wondering if that television program thing could also be tied to the marked surges of alcohol, sleeping pills...ya know? Something obviously made someone angry."

"Chocolate." Riley came out of the kitchen carrying three half empty bags of chocolate and a pitcher of brown and pink goo.

"What's that?"

"Smell," she instructed.

Nick crinkled his nose but nevertheless sniffed at the concoction. "Chocolate ice cream and...mint?"

" Pepto Bismol," Riley supplied. "There are eight empty bottles in the trash and half a bottle on the counter."

Greg mock-retched. "Yuck. If they were trying to cure nausea I think they missed the mark."

Nick walked over to one of the five bodies and peered at her face. "What do we know?"

"Okay," Greg stood and paced as he talked, "five women of varying ages—twenty something to Grandma there—all in a room where it looks like they had a slumber party and couldn't sleep? I thought girls didn't actually sleep at those things anyway—don't they like to stay up all night chatting or something?" His question was directed at Riley who rolled her eyes and walked over to where the TV was.

"They may have smashed the TV to smithereens, but the TiVo looks like it's still intact." She ran a hand over the top while in thought. "Maybe we can find out what it was that made them so angry."

Nick nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Riley, why don't you and Greg head back to the lab with these bottles and the TiVo to see what you can find out? I'm gonna finish up here and check with the neighbors and families."

* * *

"I thought you said she was dead?" Grissom watched as medics loaded the girl into the ambulance, lights and sirens went on, and off they went to Desert Palm.

When he didn't have to yell, Brass raised his palms and shrugged. "I thought she was—that's what we were told, but when the medics got here they were able to find a faint pulse. She's in a coma now and they aren't sure of her chances yet. You guys should probably check things out inside though. People are going to want answers."

When Grissom didn't answer Catherine took his arm and dragged him inside calling behind her, "Thanks Jim."

* * *

Once inside they spoke to the young man who had called 911. A skinny teenager working a part-time job, he was in shock as he relayed the events back to the CSIs...

"She seemed ok when she walked in here. She went straight to the pharmacy and picked up a few over-the-counter-meds. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"What kind of medications did she pick up?"

"Um, generic sleeping pills, advil....then she went to the candy aisle. That basket over there is hers."

Catherine eyed it and let out a whistle. "With that load she'd be ready for every major holiday that involves candy."

"Oh, she has a standing prescription for sulcrafate, which she also got filled while she was here."

"Ulcer medication..." Grissom's brow furrowed for the hundredth time that night. Catherine could almost see the wheels turning.

"What?"

"I haven't put all of the pieces together just yet..." he turned and began walking down the aisles, apparently still lost in thought. She let him be for a few minutes and questioned the teen a bit more before going after him. She didn't want him to get angry.

After circling the store a couple times Grissom walked outside and sat down on the curb. Catherine followed behind him and leaned against the building, waiting for him to break the silence.

"Where are her personal effects? Purse...pills...anything she bought?"

"Her purse and clothing are at the hospital with her, and she didn't buy anything—her basket is still in there—we know she hadn't made it to the counter yet."

"We know she didn't make it to the _front_ counter, but she could have made other purchases at the pharmacy window."

"I would guess, then, that those would be with he other personal belongings at the hospital."

Grissom stood with purpose. "I'm going to the hospital. Finish up here and then meet me at the lab."

"What about our talk?"

"It'll wait."

She turned to go back inside muttering under her breath, "Yeah, I bet you wouldn't mind waiting—seems to be your forte`..."

* * *

"_TPTB_?" Greg looked over the sheet once more. "Didn't these people watch ANYTHING else?"

Riley shook her head. "I had Archie double check, but the only show on there,or scheduled to be recorded, is _TPTB_ and its re-runs." She shrugged.

"I'm not sure why you'd want the repeats when you've got every episode anyway...but they're one there--" Greg chuckled. "Talk about an obsession. Any chance of them watching that when they died?"

Riley pulled up a screen and tapped it. "Yup. It was paused—apparently--when they decided to destroy the television screen."

"Well have you watched it yet? I mean what was it that could have made them _that_ angry? It's just a tv show. It's not _**real**_."

Catherine entered the room with a folder in hand. "Real or not Greg, these women took it _**very**_ seriously."

"I thought you were working on a case with Grissom?"

"I am." She sighed. "Haven't seen him by any chance have you?"

"Nope." Riley shook her head. "Sorry."

Catherine crossed her arms "Figures. I think our cases are related."

Greg looked up surprised. "Like the victims knew each other? Same killer?"

"No, my vic isn't dead...yet. But I have a hunch that they have more in common than we may have realized. Where's Nick?"

"On his way back. He was talking to the neighbors."

"Okay, meet me in the layout room in 10. I want to play a game." She smiled grimly and was out the door-phone in hand-before they could clarify.

* * *

"Grissom."

"Gil, where are you? We're ready to lay out the cases—which by the way—I think are linked."

"It's my fault." He sounded defeated.

"What? Gil what are you talking about? Are you still at the hospital?"

"Huh? Yeah."

"Listen to me. Get in your car. Drive back to the lab. Meet us in the layout room. When we're finished in there-you and I are going to finish our little talk. Capiche?"

"Cath-I don't..."

"Good. See you soon." Catherine hung up before he had a chance to disagree. _What on earth is going on in that man's head? _She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Releasing it slowly she said to herself as much to anyone else, "Okay, Catherine...one mystery at a time. Let's get this case solved, then we can work on Grissom," and strode off toward the layout room to meet the rest of the gang.

* * *

He couldn't make it to the lab.

Something within him wouldn't let him.

He pulled into an alley and locked his doors.

It would be better for everyone this way.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose.... and then he released it.

You wouldn't have been able to hear a gunshot.

No, the grief and anger-at both himself and the circumstances, but mostly just himself-- had become too much.

The pent up beast inside him was now breaking free and the groan quickly became a moan and then a yell.

Deep.

Guttural.

Primal.

As he released it, the animal began to hit all of his emotional centers like a pinball machine, but the one that hurt the most was sorrow and the tears that were now blazing trails down his cheeks unbidden.

* * *

He'd gone to the hospital to pick up the girl's belongings. Before he was able to get away he was confronted by the girl's sister who berated him with questions to which he had no answers. Instead of leaving him be, she dragged him to the girl's room and proceeded to tell him why she had been taking the medications along with probable reasons for everything else in her sister's case as well as—most likely—the one the guys were working on.

"She knows it isn't real," the sister had said, "but it still affected her. I think that she may have lost hope for them."

It added up.

It was all right there in front of him.

Those were characters.

That show had writers and producers—people in charge of the characters' destinies. Apparently they hadn't realized just how much power _TPTB_ had –as a force that messed with the heads of committed watchers.

Apparently there was a whole community –online and elsewhere. They lived and breathed this show, and when it seemed that their hope had been taken away they self medicated.

But his life _was_ real.

With choices.

He coughed and came out of his reverie. He needed to get to the lab.

* * *

"Where's Grissom?"

"He's on his way—but we're going to start without him."

Greg bounced on his heels, "So we're playing some sort of game? Like Parcheesi?"

Catherine rolled her eyes. "Sorry Greggo—more like connect the dots."

Greg huffed. "That's a game for four year olds..."

"Don't worry Greg, you'll get a snack later," she said, laughing.

"Really? You know, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"No snack Greg. Sorry."

Greg made a pouty face and crossed his arms. "Then I'm not playing," he grumbled.

"You have to Greg, it's your job," Grissom said walking in.

Greg sat up immediately. "What do you have super spidey hearing or something?"

Catherine glanced at Grissom briefly but he just gave her a half smile and pulled a folder out from under his arm.

"A hope deferred makes the heart sick."

"Which sonnet is that from?"

"The Bible. Proverbs 13:12."

Catherine opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off before she had a chance.

"The cases are linked," he assured the team, "though I'm more than sure that you've already figured that out for yourselves. I have a theory, but would like to hear what you've come up with first." He stood back from the table and crossed his arms.

"Gil if you already know what's going on—I don't think we should wait to hear it," Catherine urged.

Another half smile, "I said I have a theory. Show me what you have."

"Alright," Nick acquiesced, "I'll start. We have five bodies-six if we include yours-"

"Ours isn't dead—yet."

"Right. So five bodies of varied ages and what would appear to be overdoses. Large quantities of alcohol, sleeping pills, and Pepto--"

"Right," Riley jumped in, "And we found out what may have triggered them. I had Archie look at the TiVo and found that they had been watching the latest episode of that show _TPTB_—on repeat. There was evidence of multiple someones having thrown partially full bottles of wine at the television. Whatever that episode contained really upset them." As soon as she was finished talking the door opened.

* * *

"Hey guys."

"Super Dave, we already got the autopsy results, man," Nick held up the file folder that sat before him.

Dave smiled sheepishly. "Oh, um-I'm not here about that exactly." He held up a box laden with—well, Nick wasn't sure what it was exactly. "No offense man, but we don't need your yard sale rejects in here right now."

Dave blushed but place the box on the table anyway. "This isn't yard sale stuff—this is from my wife."

Grissom raised his eyebrows. "Go on."

"Well-see she's been a pretty hardcore fan of _TPTB_ for a while now. She saw the news reports and figured this stuff might help you guys. This is her entire collection. Maybe help you get into the heads of the victims."

Grissom nodded. "Dave, has your wife experienced any...emotional surges lately...due to the show?"

"No sir. We were out of town and missed that last episode—and after everything that's happened she agreed not to watch it until...well—it's got to have a happy ending."

"Well thank you Dave."

Dave bowed his head and ducked out of the room.

Grissom turned back to the team. "What else?"

Nick spoke up, "I talked to friends and family and came up with pretty much what our pal Dave just said. Each of the vics was a die-hard fan of the show and needed—their words not mine—a happy ending. Particularly for two of the show's characters...uh, Bill Butthead and Farrah Fidel. Hey, doesn't that sound a bit like-"

"No." Catherine cut him off and shot him a warning look before things got out of hand. "Okay good—that's about it. We've figured out that at the very least, the two cases hold the TV show in common. The girl at the pharmacy used different means, but was also driven by that show. The contents of her basket included an entertainment magazine with an ambiguous article about the show-among other things. So far-that's what we know." She looked at Grissom, "Unless you have something to add—or want us to go through this box..."

He shook his head. "I already know what you'll find in the box, but pull it out anyhow."

Catherine raised her eyebrows and motioned for Greg to start revealing the contents of the box. "DVDs from what looks like every season the show's been on the air, coffee mug, t-shirt, mouse pad, ooh—_TPTB_-the lunchbox!!, couple of books, shot glasses, a hat, posters, fan magazines, autographed picture, looks like...what do you call it? Fan fiction?" He tipped the box over on its side and continued pulling things out. "Three, no wait, four board games, couple of computer games, huh-action figures—didn't know they made these—and" his head popped up from behind the box, "a magnifying glass."

Nick whistled, "Whoa. That's a lot of dedication."

Riley grunted, "I went through a phase like that. _In grade school. _It was over a TV show too. Maybe you've heard of it? _Banana Fontana_?"

"You watched that?"

She smiled. "I said it was a _phase_."

"I don't think this is quite the same thing."

Catherine grabbed the box and set it to the side. "Okay, so we know how obsessed, er—dedicated--they were. Let's talk about how that led to death."

"Isn't it kind of obvious? I mean, they were all very emotional—and too emotionally invested in the show's characters. We never found any evidence of foul play."

Greg sighed. "It was suicide."

"What do you think Boss man?" Catherine directed her attention to Grissom who had yet to share whatever revelation he'd gotten from visiting the girl at the hospital.

"Involuntary manslaughter," he said simply before turning on his heel and leaving the other CSIs with mouths agape and more questions.

* * *

Catherine was on his heels. "Wait a minute—what do you mean—involuntary manslaughter? On whose part? Gil, what do you know?"

He waited for her to follow him into his office and locked the door behind her.

"I'm ready for our talk now," he said and sat behind his desk. Catherine was still spouting questions, "What abou—wait, what?"

He sat back and smiled. "I'm ready to talk."

She threw up her hands, incredulous, "We're in the middle of a big case and you decide that _**now**_ you're ready to talk? You really are an enigma Gil."

He gave her a sad smile. "When I told you earlier that it was my fault—I meant it. When Sara first got home from the hospital after her abduction I encouraged her to watch TV—to take her mind off of things. It was pretty much the only thing she could do. Guess which show she started watching?"

"_TPTB_?"

He nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, and once she got better she continued to TiVo it because she was fascinated by the similarities between characters on the show—and us. She really was into anthropology you know...anyway, I think she left because she doesn't want to end up like that character. It may have taken me a while to see it, but I can help determine the outcome of _our_ story. I don't know what the network or writers have in mind for Bill—Butthead or Farrah Fidel, but I can affect the future of Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle. And I aim to do just that. There isn't anything we can do besides write letters, picket the studio, send an absurd amount of balloons and other show related paraphernalia. I'll get Brass to talk to the network so that they're aware, but the ruling will be accidental suicide. In the meantime you go back to the hospital to check on our girl, and I'm going to make things right with Sara. You understand?"

Catherine opened her mouth to speak but no words would come.

He smiled. "It's all about hope. The networks know that you have to offer them hope—and they'll take it—whatever little bit—and hold onto it, and then they'll do whatever you want. They'll keep watching. They'll keep ratings up. Out of hope. What the networks don't seem to understand is that when you take that hope away....Game Over."

He stood and walked to the door.

"Beware how you take away hope from another human being."* And with that he was gone.

* * *

The girl stirred and her eyes flicked open. She'd been in a steady coma since being brought in-despite doctors' best efforts to bring her out of it.

She spotted Catherine in the chair by her bed, making notes in a file folder that was on her lap.

"Did he go to her?" she rasped, her throat dry from lack of speaking and no fluids to lubricate her tongue.

Startled, Catherine looked up. "Yes, he did."

"Good. Everything is going to be okay now," and she closed her eyes once more—this time going into a much-needed, deep dream-filled slumber.

It had been a while.

Fin

* * *

*Quote by 19th century poet Oliver Wendell Holmes.

**Please review. Comment. _Something! _These are hard times!!**

A/N: I don't believe there are action figures or lunch boxes, but if there are, LET ME KNOW!!


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